Pestilence: The 91st Annual Hunger Games
by SparkALeah
Summary: "It's amazing, isn't it? Humanity's survival instincts. Humans can break down, their minds can crack and splinter, everyone they love they might lose. But they just keep on living. The world only spins forwards, after all." Open SYOT. Details inside.
1. why am I doing this shit

**First things first: I'm an idiot. Honestly, my idiocy is just amusing at this point. Why on earth would I start a SYOT while I'm already in the midst of one? Hell if I know. Now that that's out of the way, hello and welcome to my second SYOT! My first one, Mirror, Mirror, is still in progress, but y'all know the craving… Mirror, Mirror was never well-thought out, and while I'm going to finish it, I'd like to start a more professional, serious SYOT. Unlike Mirror, Mirror, this SYOT will** ** _not_** **be first come, first serve. While I am quite fond of many of the tributes I've received in Mirror, Mirror, first come first serve is generally very chaotic and I'd rather have an opportunity to receive multiple submissions before I finalize the list. I also have to explain why this syot is the 91** **st** **Hunger Games instead of the 149** **th** **. Now, I am going to do the 149** **th** **, because Mirror, Mirror is going to have a background plot. I've hinted at it, but it isn't in full swing yet. Until Mirror, Mirror is finished, I can't start the 149** **th** **, because plot stuff will carry from MM to the 149** **th** **. I'll start the 149** **th** **once this finishes. This isn't exactly an AU, seperate from MM and the 149** **th** **, but as it happens many, many years before MM takes place, you guys can just pretend it is. I'm not going to add a prologue, because there isn't going to be a plot outside the games in this one, and prologue's are boring af. Where's the point? You guys all know how I write already. Also, I'm not doing a sponsoring system this time- they're more trouble then they're worth. Anyways, here's the form and the list of spots! The form is from when I was new and cringy. You may submit up to three tributes! Anyways.**

EDIT: I forgot to add the due date because I'm an idiot. The due date is September 15th! That'll give you plenty of time to get your tributes in :D. I'll probably end up extending this by a day or two.

 **Name:**

 **Gender: (If the name doesn't make it obvious.)**

 **Age: (I do let 12 year olds win the games, because flukes can happen. However, your tribute has a much better chance of winning if they are 14+.)**

 **District:**

 **Appearance: (Isn't really that relevant, but I thought I would include it anyways.)**

 **Personality: (This speaks for itself.)**

 **Backstory: (This is Panem, so it honestly doesn't have to be all that realistic, but please refrain from creating tributes that are PERFECT at everything and have a terrible past. I'm Anti-Sue, thanks.)**

 **Family:**

 **Reaction to the Reaping:**

 **Reaped or Volunteered?:**

 **Strengths:**

 **Weapons:**

 **Weaknesses:**

 **Token:**

 **Training score, and whatever they did to earn it:**

 **Parade outfit:**

 **Allies?:**

 **How far do they make it in the games?:**

 **Preferred death:**

 **How would they win?:**

 **Anything else relevant:**

 **Tribute List:**

 **D1F: 1 Submission**

 **D1M: 2 Submissions**

 **D2F: 1 Submission**

 **D2M: 2 Submissions**

 **D3F: 1 Submission**

 **D3M: 1 Submission**

 **D4F: 4 Submissions**

 **D4M: 1 Submission**

 **D5F: 0 Submissions**

 **D5M: 1 Submission**

 **D6F: 1 Submission**

 **D6M: 1 Submission**

 **D7F: 1 Submission**

 **D7M: 1 Submission**

 **D8F: 1 Submission**

 **D8M: 1 Submission**

 **D9F: 1 Submission**

 **D9M: 1 Submission**

 **D10F: 0 Submissions**

 **D10M: 1 Submission**

 **D11F: 1 Submission**

 **D11M: 1 Submission**

 **D12F: 0 Submissions**

 **D12M: 1 Submission**

 **As stupid as I think I am for doing this, I'm nevertheless excited and hope you all submit. Thank you :)**

Aaaaaaaand here's the useless POV because of stupid fanfiction rules .-.

 _Brainless Artist Capitolite (An ancestor of Ditzy Capitolite because fuck it)_

My pencil dances across the page as I sketch, a smile creeping on my lips. There's nothing more satisfying then drawing blood and organs! _Damn,_ I love the Hunger Games!

 **-Spark**


	2. Prologue The First: Fear the Dark

**A/N: Surprise, surprise, I've changed my mind. I'm going to write a few prologues because A. I want this story to be one the top of the archive for a bit longer and B. I'm itching to write. So here's one of the various prologues of Pestilence. And remember, this is an OPEN SYOT and I still need plenty of submissions. Enjoy!**

 _Canamarie Jones, Mutt Designer_

My eyes are burning. Every part of my body is numb. I don't remember turning the lights off, but here I am, sitting in the dark, the only light the blue glow of the computer screen in front of me. I feel like I've been in a trance for the past eight hours. For all I know, I could have been.

I tear my eyes away from the screen and wince as if it physically hurts me. Tears sting at the corner of my eyes. I pull myself up from my swivel chair and instantly collapse again, my knees as weak as putty. I claw at the ground in the dark and manage to haul myself to my feet as my knees prickle, numb. I stumble over to the side of the room and bump clumsily against the wall a few times before my fingers hit the switch.

Light blares in the room and I instantly throw my hands over my face, a vampire affected by fluorescent lighting instead of sunlight- though sunlight would probably cause me to act the same. "Oh, wonderful, the messiah is coming." I mumble in a surly fashion. I pull my arms down and blink in the light, my eyes squeezed into tiny slits. I groan. "Where are my pills?" I mutter aloud. I scan my dirty apartment and my eyes come to rest on a small pink bottle stuffed with white pellets. I smile weakly and march over, ignoring the fuzzy black spots floating at the edge of my vision. They're typical symptoms of my blackouts, but the pills will put a stop to them. I twist off the top and pop my daily dose in my mouth. The world slowly begins to grow duller. The screeching noise playing on repeat in my head fades to background music. No more too-colorful lights, black spots, and hallucinations- at least for the next five hours. As my mind's in the right place now, naturally I begin to worry.

I don't know what happens when I black out. I've been told I go on rampages, terrorizing people in the street with bizarre Hunger Games statistics, beating up my computer, or occasionally freaking out on Microsoft word, social media, or the mutt designing program on the computer. By the state of my apartment and my clothes, it doesn't appear that I've gotten out today, which is a plus, but who knows what havoc I could have wrecked online?

I approach my computer cautiously, as if it's a ticking time bomb I need to disable or some shit, like I'm in a cheesy spy movie. My inactivity has caused the screen to go black and I start it up anxiously, nibbling at my fingernails. It's a nasty habit, but it isn't like I can stop. I do it whenever I'm nervous, and I'm nervous a _lot._

The screen flares with light and Digital Design 2.5 loads onscreen. The program I use for mutt designing.

Shit.

 _Crazy, isn't it?_

 _The word "fear" is incredibly passive. It does not change. And why should it? Fear is everlasting. It does not need to be an ever-changing beast, and yet the emotion is. There is no such thing as "passive" fear. Fear means action. Fear means transitioning. Oh, sure, fear may shock you into stillness physically, but I'm on a higher plane of things. Your brain shifts. One second you feel safe, the next you don't. You could have seen it coming, and dread would have been born within you, a catalyst for fear. Or it may come out of nowhere. Shock is neither inherently good nor inherently bad, and that way it can go hand in hand with joy, but also with fear._

 _There are so many different kinds of fear. The sweating on a bus kind of fear as bodies crowd into you and your breathing speeds up. The cornered kind of fear where your still-beating heart threatens to rip itself out of your own chest. The dread fear, where your heartbeat thumps sluggishly and you can feel it in your stomach. The panicked type of fear, where adrenaline buzzes in your veins and your vision clears. And the worst kind. The kind where you're utterly alone in your apartment, pills bobbing in a sea of stomach acid, where you stare at a computer screen and wait in horror for a monster to load. The kind where you can't rip your eyes away._

 _The kind that everyone expects you to do something about._

 _Camamarie Jones has always been aware of her demons. The problem was, her demons were also aware of her. They knew how she ticked, they knew how she thought. They knew that the best way to destroy her was via her brain, the brain she prided herself on. To seize control over her body and leave her dripping tears on her laptop as friends slowly back away._

 _After all, who wants to be friends with the crazy girl, right?_

 _Fear very much wants to be friends with the crazy girl._

 _In 4 days, Camamarie Angelica Jones will pass away. She will stare at her screens and stare at her demon and stare at her life in general and realize that she is no longer capable of being happy. And this will break her. The light in her dies will die. Her blackouts will slowly stop because her demons and her personal Fear knows they have one and there is no need to shatter her anymore. She will not make a scene. Camamarie Jones is not about scenes. She is about suffering in silence. She will wonder aloud, in public, what the best way to do it is. A knife is romantic. A gun makes people remember you. A rope is symbolic._

 _And in the end she'll decide she doesn't care. All she wants is for it to end._

 _She'll say this aloud in a sunny square, beneath a statue of former president Raol Wise. An athletic couple will glare at her for disturbing their morning jog. A young mother wheeling around a baby will pause for a second, shake her head, and then leave. By the time she does, Camamarie's words have faded into thin air._

 _She hurries back home that day, and for the first time, a glow lights up within her. She has a purpose. She feels happy, for once. It makes her stop. And think. And then she, like the young woman wheeling around a toddler, will shake her head and unlock the door into her apartment._

 _She'll walk over to the dresser and unscrew the lid of her bottle of pills, recently bought. She'll stare at her distorted pink reflection in the bottle. But she won't see herself, oh no. She'll see the monster she designed on that dark night. And she'll unscrew the cap with a fierceness she hasn't demonstrated in weeks and she-_

 _Well, you know what happens next, don't you?_

 _Two weeks later, a coworker will come to her house to pick up some of her belongings for the shrine at her funeral. He'll notice her laptop and throw that into the bin. But-_

 _-He hesitates._

 _He sets the laptop down on the kitchen counter and opens it up. He finds the password in a key drawer. He checks the computer history and sees that she most recently used Digital Design 2.0, the program Mutt Makers use to brainstorm and animate some mutt ideas. Out of curiosity, he opens up the program. A few files in, he finds Camamarie Jones's signature monster._

 _But instead of cringing in horror his smile grows… and grows… and grows._

 _He's found the arena's signature mutt, and he shall call it Fear._

 _It turns out Camamarie Jones's little pet has some use after all._

 _Fear._

 _That word does not only belong to Camamarie Jones._

 _It also belongs to the tributes of the 91_ _st_ _Hunger Games._


	3. Prologue The Second: Fear your Friends

**A/N: Guys, I still need a shit ton of tributes, so send them in! There's no story if there's no tributes. Ugh. Sorry. I'm just tired today and can't really form a coherent sentence. On with the chapter!**

 **I also find the need to mention I was listening to "Fuck You (Very Much)" while writing this. Idk. Also I've never drunk before so I have no idea how accurate Perdixa is xD. SUBMIT TRIBUTES! Thank you.**

 _Camamarie Jones is dead._

 _But her legacy lives on._

 _Oh, I'm sure she'd be devastated knowing this. Cammy didn't want to be remembered. And she_ _ **certainly**_ _didn't want the creature of her nightmares, born thanks to a twisted, insane mind, to become the main mutt of the 91_ _st_ _Hunger Games._

 _But we can't all get what we want._

 _This is not the last time we will visit Cammy. But we have someone else to see._

 _Enter Perdixa Mountains, 29 year old socialite and party planner, famous for her avante-garde fashions and excellent salsa dancing. You all know a Perdixa. Sassy and whip-smart, juggling both insults and wine glasses alike and generally not giving a fuck. Extremely outspoken, politics-wise. And a magnet for…_

 _I'm getting off track._

 _Wouldn't you like to meet Perdixa yourself?_

I'm dizzy. There's champagne sloshing in my stomach and my heart is full with song. I fumble a few dancing steps and then opt to laugh instead, leaning against the marble table and fiddling with the pearl buttons on my sweeping scarlet gown. I hear a snort from a few paces away. I snort in response and then giggle because I sound like a pig.

"You are so, so drunk, Dixie."

I crane around and my lips quirk up into a mischievous smirk. _Henri DeDiamente._ This night has just gotten _way_ more interesting. "Heyyyyyy Henri!" I purr, elongating my vowels. I read somewhere it makes you sound more seductive. Apparently Henri doesn't seem to think it's sexy, though, as his perfect button nose wrinkles and that alabaster brow furrows. Then again, Henri doesn't seem to find anything entertaining or even mildly attractive. I wonder if he's ace? Ace and without a sense of humor? He would have told me, wouldn't he? Well, maybe not. I'm not entirely sure whether he hates me or loves me, and he's not exactly going to go around revealing details like that to people he despises.

"Are you going to barf in the toilet?" He asks me dryly. I scoff. "You severely underestimate my alcohol tolerance." I say primly, and then giggle because I sound like a fucking princess and also I should design some princess gowns. Avante-garde is so old. It's just tin cans masquerading as clothes. Everyone likes princesses.

Henri groans. "You are _so_ going to barf in the toilet." He mutters. I nod importantly. "Roger that!" I salute.

And then I rush off to the toilets to puke. Of course.

When I come back, Henri's sipping from a glass flute filled with punch. He's as far away from the champagne bottles as possible, suspicious eyes flicking from side to side as blurry people spin in glitzy gowns and sleek tuxes. I grin. "The punch is spiked, you know." I say casually. Henri gags and spits out his punch.

I tilt my head and stare at Henri quizzically as he mops up the stain on his front. There's a curious sensation ringing through me and I don't think it has anything to do with the alcohol. He catches me staring and quirks an eyebrow. And then I make a split-second decision.

"Let's dance." I say smoothly, and grab him before he has a chance to protest. We whirl into the fray and I wrap my hands around his back as his hands land on my waist. He nibbles his lip, and I can't help but note how cute it is before he begins to speak. "What are you doing?" He hisses, eyes dark. I widen my eyes innocently as candlelight waltzes with us, casting buttermilk patterns on our skin. "Can't I share a dance with a friend?" I ask. He scowls and then sighs. He looks…

I don't know.

That scares me, it really does. I've known Henri DeDiamente since we were both gawky teenagers. Our parents met at a dinner party and hit it off, instant friends. Henri and I? Instant enemies. But over the years we've developed an extremely confusing love-hate relationship. (Quite literally love-hate, seeing as we made out in a closet every Saturday for about three years and on the same days had spectacular fights over yard sales. _Yard sales,_ for gods sake! We really are hopeless.) We're always squabbling, but we have a fierce loyalty to one another. We'll never betray each other or sell each other out in a million years. We have a hesitant truce, yes, an infinitely flawed bond, but it's better then not being in each other's lives at all. Henri is a stuck-up prat, but I have no idea what I would do without him. Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly what I'd do without him. I'd drink and whore my way throughout life but everyone bloody morning my eyes would sting with fresh tears.

Anyways, over the years I've become a master of dissecting his facial expressions. Every twist of his lips is a different emotion, and I'm the only one who can unravel the stoic man. But right now? I have no idea what emotions he's feeling. The expression on his face is completely indecipherable. It's unbalancing.

He breaks away and grabs my hand. There's a dark sort of look in his eye now, like he's gotten himself into some deep shit. My blood chills. He probably _has._

"What's going on?" I ask coldly. Henri pales. He knows my facial expressions too. My pretty face must be blasting pure fury right now.

"Just…" His voice trails off. His lips pull down and his eyes glow with fear as he begins to mess with his sloppy, dirty-blond curls. "Perdixa," He says hesitantly. "Perdixa, I don't know how I ended up in this situation…"

All the blood drains out of my face. My mouth tastes like sawdust. Sweat pours down my palms.

 _Perdixa._ He called me _Perdixa._ This is bad, this is really, really bad-

And suddenly his hand is vicelike around my wrist and he's pulling me out of the room and down the deserted marble hallway. We sweep past golden busts of old senators, courtesy of my mother, and into a small storage closet. The door slams shut and suddenly I'm squished up against his chest, breathing in the smell of dust and honeyed punch. I tremble.

His hand digs in his pocket for a few seconds and then I catch a glint of copper metal. I squint and study the.. _thing_ closer. It's a copper pin, with a… flag? Wait-

My bones turn to lead, my blood to fire, and all that my mind can register is _no, no no no no NO, not the Armada-_

I wrench free of him and push out the door, nearly sobbing as I feel semi-fresh air hit my face. And then I'm running, running, running.

Because my best friend, the boy I've loved since forever, give or take a few years, is a terrorist.

 **A/N: spoopy.**


	4. Prologue The Third: Fear my Love

**A/N: NOTE AND TRIGGER WARNING: I do not, nor will I ever condone Henri's actions/way of thinking and I acknowledge that it is unhealthy and very scary, not a "kink." His character being the way it is is necessary for the plot to progress. Just… tread lightly.**

 **Now that that's out of the way-**

 **You guuuuuuys. I still need a bunch of tributes :0. So send them in, will you?**

 **On with the chapter!**

 _Have you noticed something about Camamarie Jones and Perdixa Mountains? The two seemingly have nothing in common… oh, except one thing. They're both ruled by their fear._

 _Over and over, they make stupid, rash decisions fueled by the terror in their hearts. Perdixa drinks herself to drunkenness and runs away from a friend she's known for forever and a day in fear of a glinting copper badge. Camamarie flinches from her digital monsters and kills herself out of fear. Fear was Camamarie's downfall, and I'll bet my shriveled heart that it'll be Perdixa's._

 _Do you see the theme here?_

 _I'm trying to warn you._

 _…_

 _Henri DeDiamente is another pitiful creature ruled by emotion and terror. But at least there's logic to his fear. One wrong word, one misstep, and he's dangling from a noose. But this does not cancel out the fact that he is, in fact, despicable. For reasons other then his crippling_

 _Fear is a matter of opinion, after all._

 _Fear is a lot of things?_

 _Don't get used to me being so philosophical and "kind," at least by my standards. I'm just here to watch you all crash and burn. But that doesn't mean I can't issue a warning. One good action does not make a good person. If you can call me a person._

 _I sure don't._

 _Henri DeDiamente_

She rips from my grasp, a fragile paper bird fluttering madly, desperately flapping wet wings.

 _No._

I didn't come this far to fail. I didn't come to this stupid party and stumble over my tongue to fall. She will listen to me. She must.

I'll make her.

I dash out the closet and run down the hallway, my feet skidding wildly on marble floors. She's skidding too, dress swaying and tripping her up. Good. I rush forwards, my feet slapping the ground, feeling a sharp buzz of fear. _She can't get away._ I need her here. I need her to just _listen_ to me. I snag onto her hand and pull her, kicking and screaming, into my arms. My pin bites into her hand and she stops thrashing, simply staring at me with huge, terrified doe eyes.

Now that she's settled down, I have time to be angry. Before I know it, my hand is slamming into her cheek and she's screaming in fear and pain. Serves her right. I love her, but she needs to listen. She needs to shut up and hear me out. She's sprawled on the floor now. Just staring at me.

Stop looking at me.

I pull her up by her wrist, letting her dangle limply for a second before I pull her to me. She sways on the balls of her feet, tears dripping slowly from her eyes.

"What happened to you?" She whimpers. "I'm not different." I tell her sternly, and for a second I see a flash of her old defiance in her face. "You…" She hesitates and the words fade on her lips. She sags like a broken puppet. Her eyes glisten. But she's still beautiful. How could she not be?

I've been in love with Perdixa Mountains since the day I met her, and I know she loves me too. All her coy smiles lead up to it. But she pretended to hate me in the beginning. I went along with it. What else could I do? But I never thought she'd betray me, deny me like this. Our love was unspoken but powerful.

The smallest action…

The biggest ripples.

Realization flashes in her eyes and she looks like she's been crushed beneath a pile of boulders. "Oh my god." She whispers. "You haven't changed."

My lips curl up into a smile. "You're getting it." I say, pleased.

She looks devastated. The makeup smudges on her face enhance her horror and terror. Normally, fear and sadness on my beloved's face would cause me to blow a fuse. But this time around, she needs to be taught a lesson. She can _never_ run from me.

"You've always been this way."

And with these words, she dissolves into a puddle of tears, her entire body shaking with mournful sobs. I grind my teeth together, willing her to get on with it. I hate seeing her in pain, but this is necessary. I hope she knows that.

"I'm a member of the America Intiative." I hiss as I prop up her limp, tearful form. "I stand for proper American values. And in proper America, woman do not run from their husbands."

She glares up at me weakly, red-rimmed eyes shadowed. "We're not married." She snarls. I grin.

"We're going to be. Welcome to the America Intiative."

 _And there you have it. Perdixa Mountains and Henri DeDiamente disappear into the heart of the Capitol, in a secret warehouse to help organize. It's a story I'm sure you're all desperate to hear. There's nothing more exciting then an obsessed rebel chasing after his capitol lover, after all. Drama! Mystique! Intrigue! Except that's not what you're getting. Henri DeDiamente and Perdixa Mountains are simply reminders. Warnings. Perdixa is a walking disaster-to-be, while Henri has already crumbled._

 _It is vital that you understand, do you hear?_

 _Fear can get you places. Fear can save your life. But when you live your life in a perpetual state of extended terror then you are destined to fall. It doesn't matter how- they can fall from grace in a dramatic fashion, or they can fade into oblivion in silence- but they will crash and burn, mark my words._

 _What? How do I know?_

 _Well, the same thing happened to me._

 **A/N: PATIENCE. The identity of our mystery narrator will be revealed in time. How about you drop a review and a character? I still need lots! Yeah, Henri is Yandere af. Not what you were expecting? I wasn't expecting it either, tbh. I just sorta sat down and wrote it XD.**

 **lol if I'm being honest I have no idea where I'm going with this BUT IT SEEMS TO BE TURNING OUT OKAY SO LIKE,,, FINE THEN**

 **this has too little words im shook**

 **when u write a chapter that looks fair sized and then u see 4 chapter long stories with 46 thousand words (cough traveller cough) (lol thanks for destroying my confidence celticgames4)**

 **idk man I'm just stalling**

 **SUBMIIIIIT**


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